


In The Garden of Gethsemane

by littlehollyleaf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode: s07e17 The Born-Again Identity, Gen, Missing Scene, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-26
Updated: 2012-03-26
Packaged: 2018-09-15 15:32:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9241808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehollyleaf/pseuds/littlehollyleaf
Summary: 7.17 missing scene. They both know it's so much more than a coat.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Why look at that lovely bandwagon. But it's so full, there can't possibly - oh, there's still room? Thank you! Thank you so much :) Emanuel means 'god is with us' and is also something church-goers like to call Jesus from time to time. This makes the title relevant if nothing else.

**In the Garden of Gethsemane**

 

Dean grips the folded trenchcoat in both hands, one on top and one below, arms outstretched like he's making an offering to the gods, and isn't that fucking ironic?

He's always felt like a moron for holding on to the thing all this time, moving it from bag to bag and car to car. Sam's never said anything, but he knows, Dean's sure of it—hell, the screeching U-turn he'd made back to their motel the week after closing Purgatory when he realised he'd left the coat behind had to have clinched it. But he guesses his brother knew better than to try make him talk about it, Bobby too, and Dean's grateful for that he really is because what the fuck would he say?

His overwhelming need to keep the coat, to keep it _close_ , has always been as much of a freakish mystery to him as it must have been to the others. He's Dean Winchester and he's never needed a security blanket in his life thank you very much, least of all a ragged and bloody one! Not even Dad's leather had inspired this compulsive, almost shameful, dependence. In fact, when one of his colleagues at the construction site spilt industrial glue on the collar and Lisa had shaken her head sadly that evening and pronounced it unsalvageable Dean hadn't even flinched. He'd just thrown the thing out with a shrug and let Lisa buy him something new.

So why? he'd ask himself sometimes, late at night, when the alcohol wore off or hadn't kicked in yet and he still had some faculties left for self-awareness. Why the attachment to this rotting monster of a thing he never even wore or intended to?

Well, as Cas—fucking _Cas_ again, one hundred and ten percent, voice back to that whiskey filtered through broken glass growl and everything—blinks at the offered coat in confusion; as he squints and _tilts his head_ , striking a million chords inside Dean as a million memories of the same moment transpose themselves over this one, something inside Dean slots into place with an almost physical clunk.

"Is that—?" Cas asks and Dean can only nod.

Though his expression remains clouded, eyebrows drawn, lips half-way to a frown, the hand Cas reaches out to slide along the top of the fabric moves in a slow, reverent circle. Like on some level the newly restored angel already knows this is more than just a tangle of thread and woven cotton. Like he can read meaning in the folds even Dean hasn't fully grasped yet.

"You kept it..."

It's not really a question, but Dean can hear the need for an answer anyway. A need for him to clarify the gesture by putting it in words. But that's always been their problem, hasn't it? Ever since Castiel's first, well-meaning attempts to communicate had left Dean frightened and bleeding, words have always found some way to work against them.

Maybe this time won't be any different. But Dean knows he has to try.

"I guess," he starts, pausing to wet his lips and suddenly parched throat. "Part of me always believed that you'd come back."

And that's it.

That's what he's been holding on to all this time.

Not some crappy coat, but the promise of Cas' return.

And that's why he hasn't been able to shake off Cas and what he did. Because of everyone to move in and out of Dean's life over the years, Cas is the only one, the only outsider not bound by long years of family loyalty, to ever _come back_. Not once, but _always_.

Of course Dean couldn't let him go. No more than he can Sam or he knows, in his heart of hearts, he has Bobby. Cas was, is and always will be _more,_ and all this time Dean's been _waiting_ for him. For this moment.

Which he's screwing up, just like all the times before, because Cas just stares at him in the silence that follows and Dean knows his words aren't good enough. And why should they be? They weren't back in Bobby's since charred and ashen library with faulty angel proofing coating the windows. They weren't back in that lab with the stench of fresh blood and god knows what else filling the air, Raphael's guts splattered across the walls and Cas a walking time bomb, Bobby staring wide-eyed at Dean like he was the off switch and to no avail.

Dean can't even find the right words for his own brother half the time. How can he possibly hope to explain himself to a being who's just filled his grapefruit with memories older than time itself?

"Here," Dean croaks, feeling strangely desperate as he starts to unwrap the fabric, and yet not in ways he'd been expecting.

Yes, his brother's life is on the line down in that crappy excuse for a Psych Ward, where maximum security means two guards instead of one and actual locks on doors no one bothers to close—but what can you expect when you don't have enough aliases to fake insurance anymore? But it's more than that making Dean's fingers tremble as he fumbles with the coat, shaking it out so he can lean forward and drape the thing round Cas' shoulders. It's more than a need to save Sam any way he can, because he can't be sure Cas can do that anymore than the angel himself can be. Dean's known this venture was a snowball's chance the second 'Emanuel' looked up at him with those painfully blue eyes, because hadn't Cas all but told him when he was crouched on the lab's grimy floor waiting for the end that he wouldn't have the juice to fix Sam without the souls? So no, this is more than a last ditch attempt to get Cas' help.

This is personal.

A draw of air sounds through Cas' parted lips and Dean stops. He looks up, waiting for Cas to say something. A protest, a confused 'I don't understand,' anything.

But if Cas planned to say anything he changes his mind, slipping his arms through the sleeves in silence until the coat's hanging down him just like it used to. Or no, not quite. The black windbreaker Cas is wearing underneath makes it seem bulkier than normal and the numerous tears and bloodstains break the flow of the fabric.

Dean reaches out on instinct, pulling at the lapels to try and drag the sides tighter over Cas' chest, brushing at the flaps to smooth out the creases and rub off as much gunk as he can.

"Shit," he mutters when none of his efforts make a difference. "I didn't realise how messed up this was..."

There's a patch of green at the corner of the left lapel Dean knows is his fault for not drying the thing before he packed it away and he starts to pick diligently at the mould. It's stupid, but the task becomes all consuming. Like if he can fix this one thing, everything else will fall into place.

It takes a forceful hand on his arm to stop him, fingers moving up to curl about his wrist, so very gently despite the pressure.

Looking up into those eyes and holding there is easier than Dean could ever have imagined, both of them meeting each other for the first time since Cas' memories filtered back and it's like they never stopped. Like Purgatory and delusions of godhood and leviathans don't even matter anymore. And maybe they don't.

"Dean," Cas breathes, eyes glistening as Dean watches, skin smoothing out at the corners with something like relief. As if Dean's lifted a weight from him, not added one. "Thank you."

The grip on him tightens.

"I'll do everything in my power for Sam," Cas continues, not once looking away. "I swear."

Dean nods. What more can he ask than that?

"I know," he says. Because he does, and always has done.

Right from the start of their roadtrip he never doubted, not for a second, that once he got Cas to Sam the angel would do everything he could. _I'll find some way to redeem myself to you_. And maybe _this_ is what it's been about all along, ever since Dean found him. He's been trying to bring the three of them back together, even if just for a moment, even if Cas can't do anything. Dean's brought Cas here to give him his chance. The chance to prove himself and make things right. And to give himself the chance he'd lost when the leviathans snatched Cas away so unexpectedly. The chance to let go of the past and make peace with his friend.

Just one thing left to seal it.

Dean extracts himself from Cas' slackened fingers, only to move in closer, arms wrapping tight about his friend's shoulders. The damp and mould and worse on the trenchcoat smells terrible, but Dean ignores it and pulls Cas close, chin resting neatly over the angel's shoulder. It takes Cas a moment to respond but he does so with a shaky sigh, clamping his arms hard and fast around Dean's torso, fingers biting into the flesh of his back, like he's scared if he's not quick enough Dean will be lost to him forever.

They don't speak, but the embrace says everything they can't and so much better. The warmth of breath on their necks says _I'm here, I understand now_. The twist of fingers through fabric, crushing their bodies closer, says _I'm sorry_ and the gripping of a shoulder says _I forgive you_.

_I'm sorry. I forgive you. I love you._

Then Dean's alone, breathing laboured, heart pounding.

He swallows.

Time to be strong again, for Sammy's sake. Time to turn around and follow Cas, at a more human pace, past Meg and inside.

Time to see this through.

 

_Fin._


End file.
